by Ru Emerson
Levren went back out to reset his snares and gather more wood against the coming of night. A warm smile lit Grewl's face as he gestured Ylia to his side. Dark, intelligent eyes glowed against the pale skin. “Sit and speak with me, Nedao's Lady, if you will. I have slept enough. And I would know what has passed.”
“What I can tell you—”
“I remember nothing, really. I do not even remember bringing poor Inda from the fields, though they tell me I did.” His Nedaoan was nearly without accent, unlike that of so many Osnerans, and he used the easy, idiomatic dialect of the Midlands, such as the peasantry in the vicinity of the Citadel spoke. She told him what she knew, listened in turn to what he could tell—though he knew, as he had said, little enough. Ylia was surprised to see the sun was near getting when they finished speaking. Time to return to the rest of the company.
Levren sat near the fire, conversing with the two oldest boys, keeping an eye on the spits they tended for him. Only she could possibly have noticed that he sat so he would not have to look at, or speak with, the foreign Chosen. “Lev, I am going back. You had better stay here, if you don't mind.”
“If I really must,” he replied dryly. “They might need my aid, these young warriors.” The boys eyed him dubiously, smiled in reply to the smile he gave them. “When, do you think?”
“Tomorrow, noon-hour, by Marhan's figuring. Take care.” She hugged him tightly.
“Take care yourself, Ylia.” He turned back to his new young friends and she strode into the trees, far enough away so that she could bridge without any of them seeing her vanish.
She reached Nisana and was with her less than a breath later. Unnerving. Not as unnerving as it had been, though she didn't really notice that. The smell of baking trout mingled with the sharp pine-tar scent of the fire. ‘Clever of you, to return in time for a meal,’ the cat remarked tartly. Ylia laughed. Nisana ordinarily preferred her own catch, but she remained in camp and close to the fire when there was fish.
Marhan gaped across the fire; Nisana had bridged her directly into their midst.
“Me,” Ylia said aloud, unnecessarily. “Sorry.”
“Sorry? What for, boy?” the Swordmaster demanded. “Popping up like a child's toy, scaring the old man green! Nothing much, eh?”
“Not much,” she retorted, and laughed. He snorted sourly, went back to stropping his dagger.
“Well? How many, and who?” Golsat demanded.
“Twelve. Five women of the Citadel, a herder woman with three children. Two orphaned. A foreign Chosen named Grewl. Lev is still with them.”
“Oh.” Golsat considered this gravely. Ylia grinned.
“Don't worry for Lev; he's handling it well enough, and the old man will no doubt sleep most of the time. They will go with us to Aresada, of course.”
“Nisana tells me,” Lisabetha said, and her voice carried awe that Nisana could tell her anything, “that there are folk at the Caves. But she does not know how many.”
“No. It is too far to touch the Caves from here, in any fashion. How has the walking been?”
“Good,” Golsat replied. “I found another trail of some sort this morning. It has gone on flat and easy for most of the day, and in the direction I am told is ours.” He glanced at Lisabetha and then Malaeth, doubtfully at Nisana.
“That way.” Ylia waved a hand generally north and west.
“Even so,” he nodded. “That, at least, is good!”
“There has been nothing bad, has there?” He seemed unusually gloomy, leaving her suddenly anxious.
“No.” He shook his head. “Not to say there will not be. Who knows—but I will not speak of evil here, lest speaking bring the thing itself.” And he surreptitiously warded himself.
“Malaeth, how are you faring?” Ylia moved over to her side, eyed her critically. Her color was good, for a change, and she seemed reasonably awake.
“Well. I have the strength of a goat in my legs of a sudden. The Nasath grant it not fail me!” Her eyes held a wordless communication in their pale blue depths. What did she see, and what does she know? Ylia leaned forward, kissed her cheek.
Golsat and Marhan squabbled throughout the evening meal. “Swordmaster, we are nearly where we go. If we can place ourselves on your map as north of the Citadel—”
“I cannot be certain we are,” Marhan grumbled. “And I will not believe in the end of this journey until we take the last step of it! If you are right—bah!” He spat noisily into the fire. “Even if I am right, we have at most thirty leagues to go, though it may be nearer twenty. Now, do the Tehlatta not hold the Caves—”
“Silence!” Golsat clapped a hand, not gently, over the Swordmaster's mouth. “You will call down all the remaining evils in the Foessa with such talk!”
“Well, the Chosen would not have it so,” Brelian said. “But then, who is to say what—?”
“Shhh!” Lisabetha laid fingers across his lips, effectively stopping him mid-thought. “I have heard enough argument in my years between those who follow the Chosen and those who set milk for the house-imp and lay the first ear of corn to the Mothers to last me the rest of my days, do I live three lifetimes! Brel, if you love me, spare me another!” He gazed at her, opened his mouth, shut it again.
Golsat laughed. “Well! I meant to start no such quarrel, certainly not between you two! I am sorry, ‘Betha, and as proof of that, I will take first watch tonight.” He bowed, making a good job of the sweeping Teshmoran formality, even though seated, and began to dig his packets of little trout from the coals.
“Do you know,” Lisabetha remarked thoughtfully, chin in hands, as she watched him deftly peel away the grass and divide up his catch, “I would never have thought I could tire of mountain trout. But the time is near when I will never wish to see another.”
Golsat separated his with two twigs, dropped a bit of firm, pink meat into his palm so he could blow it cool. “Find something else that suits you, if this does not please. I like it.” He popped the bite into his mouth. Lisabetha made a face at him.
“I should think so; I know what a guardsman carries for food! If I had eaten such things, I might be grateful for trout every night—for five-days on end—I would not,” she sighed, “mind bread. I truly would not.”
Ylia finished her own portion quickly. The taste, as Lisabetha had said, was no longer the wonder it had been at first, though at least it filled a hollow. She and Nisana then made a quick search, though the cat had made a thorough one of her own earlier.
She and Lisabetha stumbled down to the water in total darkness to wash. “I would live on Golsat's trout and nothing else, I swear it,” Ylia shivered as she rubbed her face on a far from clean sleeve, “If I could wash my body and all my clothing.”
“You!” Lisabetha replied fervently. “I would kill for hot water! And soap! Mothers, do you remember soap?”
Ylia laughed. “Well, don't kill me; any I find, I promise to share!” She shook her hands, wiped them on her pants. “It is too cold out here, me for the fire!”
“Wait—not without me—!” Lisabetha caught at her arm, and they ran back to camp.
One adjusts to anything, given need—and so I had, to those with me, so we all had. We functioned together neatly: evening camps had not been shouting matches for long days, and those events that we controlled, at any rate, went smoothly. But more than need joined us after all we had faced together, more than the simple kinds of friendship one has in the ordinary way. Though I seldom say such things, I felt affection for each of my companions—even the Swordmaster. And the Swordmaster in turn treated me, after his own brusque fashion, as a comrade and true friend.
29
Golsat built up the fire and heated water as he finished the last watch, and they were on their way an hour before the sun rose. His trail led in the direction they must go for some while, but finally bent eastward and they abandoned it for open meadow. There were streams amid the tall grasses, mostly tiny rills even Malaeth could cross without aid. The
y stopped only twice: once to allow Brelian to climb a ledge to look for sign of Levren's fire and once for a quick noon-meal.
Not an hour later, they came upon a sentry: the oldest boy, Mouse (his real name was Morovon, but no one ever used it), stood at the ready, a long, fresh-peeled staff in his hands. Levren, propped against a tree in the shade not far off, informed the company gravely that he was merely keeping the guard company; none of them would have dared smile in reply. Mouse bowed stiffly before standing aside. Levren sprang to his feet and returned to the camp with them.
He had done his work well: those who had hidden for most of the Planting Month were warmed, rested, fed. The children hung onto him with adoring eyes.
Only the Chosen were silent: Inda had died during the night. She had no desire to live, could not face the thing the Tehlatt had done to her. “'The One cares for his own,” Ylia heard Sata's subdued response to an even quieter query of Lisabetha's. Perhaps. If he grants oblivion, then perhaps.
Golsat and Brelian went in search of fish, taking Lisabetha with them. She hoped to find cattail root, from which she and Lus could grind a meal for a bland flat bread. Marhan stationed himself cross-legged in a patch of sun and retreated into his map. Levren was entertaining the children with some outrageous tale.
Lus brushed hair from her eyes with an impatient hand, set aside her youngest. To Ylia's intense embarrassment, she knelt and could not be persuaded to rise.
“My Lady. My thanks and that of my children, that you have taken such care of us. We would have died if you had not come—you and those who travel with you. I take the blood-debt, mine, my children's—all the children's—to myself.”
Ylia opened her mouth, shut it again, chose her next words with great care indeed. “Even as you say it, do I accept,” she replied finally. The herder woman, she knew, would have been uncomfortable had she spoken other than so formally. “But how should there be no aid for you? You and these children are the very stuff of Nedao, just as the threads are part of my cloak.”
“Nedao is gone,” Lus protested, but the words clearly pleased her.
Not only her. There was a silence in the clearing, and Ylia glanced up to see every pair of eyes fixed on them. “Nedao lives. We are Nedao, all of us. I am; you, Lus, and these children; these of the Chosen, my arms-mates and companions, the women of my House. Those who escaped to Aresada before us, those who sailed for Yslar. We are Nedao. Where we are, that is Nedao. There was another, once; we all know the histories, when Nedao was an island. When that was taken perforce by the Sea-Raiders, our long parents came to the Plain and again built Nedao. As we shall do, I swear it.” She stopped short, face hot. How had she come by such words? But Lus’ eyes were glowing.
“There shall be a rebuilding, Lady.” She bowed, returned to the fire and again took her youngest onto her lap. The child was so intent on Levren's tale, she scarcely noticed her mother's return; nor did she pay heed moments later when Brelian burst into the clearing.
Something strange—Brelian was smiling; no, grinning hugely, something he had not done in many days, and all the more noticeable against the black glower Golsat wore as he followed him into the camp. Brelian stopped, glanced about anxiously, but Lisabetha had not yet returned, and he fastened on the swordswoman instead. “I have bested Golsat! Look! Five against his two—and larger! And look you at the color—!” Undoubtedly he would have gone on so as long as anyone was willing to listen, but Golsat came muttering up and dragged him off to the fire.
Brelian chuckled to himself as he and the half-caste worked to wrap and bury their catch in the coals and Ylia turned away to hide a grin of her own: Brel was well-nigh insufferable, and Golsat was in the poorest humor she had ever seen.
“I thought you might want to know.” She started; Golsat had come quietly up behind. “There is a pool, yonder,” he indicated, “deep enough for swimming. The water is chill, but it is sunny and likely to stay so for another hour, perhaps two.”
“Golsat.” She gripped his shoulders. “My undying gratitude. I will have you made peer!”
“Do not you dare—my nose bleeds at such heights!” But he grinned and Ylia laughed. “Shall I send ‘Betha after you?”
“You had better, or she will never forgive you.” Malaeth was not back yet either but, given a choice, Ylia knew she would greatly prefer Marhan's kettle with water decently heated. Ylia snatched up her cloak and hurried from the clearing.
Lisabetha arrived, breathless, not long after, and they managed to get each other reasonably clean, though both could have done with honest soap for their hair, and they dared wash no clothing; it was late afternoon, and anything wet now would be still damp when it must go back on. They remained on the sun-heated rocks until they were warm once again.
Marhan was still poring over his map, drawing lines in the dirt, mumbling to himself. Ylia dropped down beside him. “What now?”
“What ever?” he demanded gruffly. “But what think you—assuming we are here,” one blunt finger stabbed at the parchment, “then I think another five-day. Or so, since we are more and have children and these Chosen women among us.” He stopped as she shook her head. “Well, we are no nearer than this, we cannot be!” He pointed again.
“More like—here.” She indicated a place two fingers north of his last. “The Citadel—there. Now, we are already north of that, so we have crossed both of your points, and we are further east.”
“And you know this—how?”
“How do I know anything? But Nisana and I will search again tonight, and I wager on your tossing sticks, old man, that I can see the marshes from here, if not the green rock of Aresada!” He regarded her sourly, finally shrugged.
“And how a man is to argue with that! No, keep your hair on, boy, I meant it straight.” He reached out to tug at her one finished plait. “You have the witching. I never trusted it, but I know the right of it. When your mother said a thing was, by the Black Well, it was. Here,on?”
“Less than a five-day, even with these new companions. But tonight will show more.” She met his gaze, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Of course, you yourself could reach the Caves ahead of us, if you wished it.”
“What, the way you brought Lev here?” He scowled good-naturedly, knowing full well she had not meant it. “My feet still work; I'll use ’em while they do.”
Evening meal was still going on when she and Nisana left camp to search, past the pool, now peaceful in the deep-blue light, on a ways from that. They climbed a low ledge, above most of the surrounding trees, sat and watched as the last of the sun moved slowly off distant peaks, and joined then.
No sign of enemy; no other folk, either. That duty taken care of, they searched north, as far as the combined vision could reach, arguing fiercely the while. ‘Ylia, I swear by your own Black Well you will not be able to walk back to camp unaided if you do not use less!’ ‘Cat, I need what I use, or I would not use it!’ ‘As you please, then, wasteful creature. But do not look to me for help if you—’ ‘There! Nisana—there!’
There. Once only had she seen Aresada, when she was very young. The Caves were still beyond their reach, but pale-green rock, and greenish, rock-strewn soil, stunted trees: that was the land not a league from them! They pulled the vision slowly back toward their present location. Marshes...
They blinked at each other. “I was right; we were right! Three days, four at the most!” Ylia was jubilant, nearly shaking with reaction.
'Do not count them,’ the cat replied dryly. ‘Plans of ours have gone so often awry.’
“No. Let us return to camp, if you're done, at least.”
'Done,’ the cat said. ‘And I am hungry.’ She rubbed hard against her companion's cheek, dropped to the ground and bounded back toward camp. Ylia followed, of necessity slower and more cautiously.
She took early watch with Golsat, fell asleep almost immediately after. She slept quietly for some time, or so it seemed. But then her inner being tingled and strange visions moved over her
thought: Two swords, one long and heavy, the other narrow and fine-bladed as a dress dagger, clashed ringingly together as lightning crackled overhead. Baelfyr leaped between the points. A dark hall—Lyiadd's? So it seemed, but older, and he who sat upon the dais was not Lyiadd. Darkness thickened the air about him like fog, and she was glad of this, glad she could not see more clearly. Glad the eyes did not turn her way.
Other odd bits of dream followed: Brendan, kissing her mother's hand, Brandt raising him to his feet. A dark, evil shadow sailing across tall forest, sending a tall, skin-clad hunter scrambling back the way he had come. A sword again, and with it a sense of longing. She could feel her hand curling in anticipation of that pale shining hilts against her palm.
Silence. A silence so complete she could not even hear her own breath. Movement—she was moving, leaping forward, dancing back, light-footed. Fighting. Lyiadd, blood trickling down his chest, staining the dark-red tunic like a ribbon of sweat, his hair hanging red-gold and lank across a thin, golden circlet. A dark-red stone, sullen against his brow. It gave back no light. But she had never seen that narrow band—was this another fight? No, hers against him, for there were the same faces: Marrita's anxious one, the impassive faces of the guard. Her sword, clear and recognizable, weaving in and out around Lyiadd's point.
The inner vision blurred suddenly, as though it could not hold against what had followed, and when it cleared she held Marrita, gritting her teeth against a sea of pain. She flung the woman away: blood was smeared across pale, loosened hair, the bodice and sleeve of the blue silk.
“Your death, remember that. Your death—” A whisper caught at her throat, rasped cold across her skin, and a black horror filled her. With a cry, she woke.
She lay flat, eyes wide, drawing air into a shaking body. Silence throughout the camp: the cry had not been aloud, for which she was grateful. But Nisana was already at her side.